


Licorice

by frustratedFreeboota, TopHat



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/F, Kiss/Kill Dynamics, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frustratedFreeboota/pseuds/frustratedFreeboota, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: Kiss/Kill dynamics are strange, Rules need to be obeyed, and the result cannot last.





	Licorice

Inhale, all the way, filling up all the way on oxygen. Smell leather, faint lavender, and chocolate because Black likes the flavor. Hear the creak of floorboards, the sound of rushing blood, and rain because Black always holds the sessions in the same corner-room of a discreet hotel. Feel the corset, heat, and the air over skin and nipples where the corset doesn’t cover because Black likes to be able to reach for anything and everything she needs.

See nothing, nothing, nothing through the red blindfold because Red likes the color red.

Exhale, all the way, until there is no air, no self, only flesh and bone and blood and Red. Little Red, Red the Doll, Red the One Who Waits. Relax into the role, into the Rules, into the blindness, and remember to be Red. A mantra, one little rock in the middle of the ocean, to make sure that after Black is done there is something left to piece the scraps together around.

Squirm as Black doesn’t touch, doesn’t begin just yet. Black likes to leave Red aware of the lack, of how much control she doesn’t have, to let Red start their time together set just a little on-edge. Red would complain but it works, and she has to fight the urge to rub her legs together as the seconds turn into minutes while blood and goose pimples rise. Red wishes for Black, wishes to feel her soon, wishes and wishes and wishes _and almost reaches for an escape that Red certainly doesn’t have-_

“Are you ready?” Black whispers. Her voice is low, soft as moonbeams and edged in promise as her hands make contact, delicately skimming over Red’s thighs.

Red nods twice, slowly sitting down on the couch behind her. She spreads her legs, lets her legs be spread, so painfully aware of her pounding heart that she figures that Black must be able to hear it, must be able to tell that her mask of control is just a mask, must be aware of just how wet Little Red is, of how her chest aches to make things move even a little faster-

A kiss, long and cool and satisfying and place directly on her bud, on that sends Red’s toes to curling as a near-squeak sneaks out from between her lips. Black continues with deep, steady licks, the kind that sooth but don’t stop, that hone but don’t appease. As a single finger slowly slides into her and begins to patiently explore, Red knows that this is going to be a long session.

They always are, of course. Black likes drawing things out, likes leaving Red scraped thin, likes keeping Red at highs and lows until Red worries she won’t come back. Black fills her up, taking bits of Red and giving them endless feather-light touches before returning them. Her insides twist into weightless sensation, flipping from compressed to empty to everything in between until Red’s not sure what she’s made of, not sure of what being Red really means. It’s exhilarating, being so devoid, but it also takes more than Red usually thinks she has.

Red wonders if this will be the night that she’ll finally snap and ruin everything.

Red never does, but that’s because Black knows when to stop.

*****

“May I _axe_ you a question?” Mouse shouted, a grin firmly in place as she ducks under a swing of Ravager’s claws.

“That pun doesn’t even work. There’s no axe in sight and neither of us are in possession of information the other wants. There is no part of your statement that is any way remotely coherent.” Ravager replied, lashing out again, tearing a rack of servers in half. There had been a plan. A good plan, one that had been going off without a hitch. Then Mouse Protector showed up and all that had flown out the window.

“I don’t know about that, I think it cuts to the core of our conversation.” Mouse’s blade flickered out, death shining and sharp, and only armor and years of fighting kept Ravager from losing an eye as she ducked, dodged, and tanked each blow. “We must make sacrifices for art, and sometimes you've gotta sacrifice the art itself.” This was the sharp sword, the one that Mouse killed with and that the general public generally forgot.

Ravager didn’t forget, though. Maybe that was the thinker power, maybe it was the scars. She’d always had a talent for keeping track of hurt.

The next time Mouse tried to thrust, Ravager slashed her hands together, aiming for the blade. She teleported away and Ravager took a gamble, spinning around and thrusting into an empty space, hoping. When empty space filled with Mouse and Ravager felt something give under her claws, something like vindication made her almost smile.

A flurry of blows later, metal tearing at metal as blades sought flesh, and the two of them disengage, panting and staring at each other. Mouse was still smiling, always smiling, but this time there was a small smoking wound on her belly, one that smelled faintly of blood. Ravager could feel her breath clouding in her mask and the ache of the trio of holes in her that Mouse had somehow snuck through her armor.

“Is this the part where you run?” Ravager asked, lifting her arms into a fighting stance, her hands clawed and her voice as even as she could make them. Ravager could never beat Mouse with words, never even come close, but she found that the tighter she held her emotions the less Mouse could affect them. That, and jabs at her tendency to run seemed to make Mouse’s facade crack, to reveal something other than good cheer and shitty jokes.

Ravager couldn’t beat Mouse with words, but she could hurt, and sometimes that was enough.

Mouse’s smile didn’t falter as she stood up, resting her sword on her shoulder and dropping her smoking shield to her side. “Welp, looks like this game of tag is done for the day! Kill you later?”

She waited for Ravager to try to say something. When only silence met her, Mouse disappeared.

For a long time Ravager stood there, on-edge. Mouse had lied before, flickered back into existence seconds after disappearing, stealing another touch, resetting the timer. Sometimes she waited minutes, many minutes, as long as an hour before reappearing, a time bomb that Ravager could never quite be sure was defused. The thought of a hand slipping over her eyes, cold metal tearing through her flesh, honeyed and poison words slipping into her ear as she failed _yet again_ to be scared _enough..._

Ravager kept her guard up, focusing on her wound-sense, waiting for the twists. It was hard, explaining what it was like to battle Mouse. If Ravager had known something about words, something about poetry, maybe she could explain the paranoia. The unending fear of surprise, the feeling of trying to hit a phantom, knowing that if a wound was anything less than lethal she’d be gone in a heartbeat. The constant pressure on her ears, on her brain, and on her emotions, the barbs sinking into her withered heart and pulling at what little was left.

Fighting Mouse was an unending pain, and Ravager could only hope that she could give back one tiny part of it.

*****

Black takes in the tableau before her silently, thinking.

Red is perfect. Not in the traditional sense, not like how models were, but the word fit all the same. Each small line of white, each shudder of control, everything about Red screamed _love me_ louder than anyone else Black had ever met. Red takes guidance without complaint, lets Black lift her legs to vertical, past vertical, and then then tie them down by her shoulders, more spread and open and willing than anything Black could hope to imitate. She lets Black cuff her, pull her wrists down and down until it seemed like Red’s body will snap with the tension between the inverted limbs, except it never does. Throughout it all she never grimaces, never frowns, only smiling sightlessly as Black does her best to push her to her limits.

Except Black’s not sure she has any.

Red can go farther than Black. It’s always Black that gives first, that calls their sessions to a close. It’s Black that collapses from exhaustion, who needs Red to carry her from the bedroom when Red has finally had enough. Black pushes herself to meet Red, to match the infinite perfection in a crimson corset, and she loves it.

It’s still terrifying.

Slowly, Black leans down and kissed Red. After a few seconds of chaste contact, unmoving, Black flicks her tongue across the painted lips, parting them with a whisper of effort and moving deeper. She marvels at how Red yields, at how one woman can be aware of every little thing happening to her, at how it doesn’t drive her mad to be so sensitive, at how Red can feel the smallest signals and find a way to give instantly. Over and over Black tried cutting back, doing less and less and less, until even Black barely knows what she's asking for when she brushes the back of her hand over Red’s cheek, and when Red breaks off the kiss to sucks at her fingers Black’s imagination runs wild.

She lifts up, taking slow, even breaths, trying to get her heart back under control. One hand slides down Red’s form, the heated flesh arching up into her palm, until Black comes to downy hair. Brown, just this side of red, a color which fascinates her every time. Almost absentmindedly Black curls her fingers into it, watching as minute twitches travel up and down Red’s form, lips twitching in a smile that melt Black’s heart. Black’s free hand goes down to her own sex, then comes away wet, strands of arousal strung between each finger. Black looks at it for a long moment, then holds the messy digit under Red’s nose.

When Red reaches up to suck at them, Black’s knees nearly give out.

If it were Black being toyed with, if it was Red’s fingers exploring her, if it was Red’s thumb on her clit caressing a circle around the bud, Black would be screaming for release. She would beg, plead, and promise anything and everything under the sun for just a little more pressure, for enough motion to get her off. She’d be a sobbing mess inside of ten minutes, happy and sad and ashamed and elated and so completely out of her depth that she’d be left shuddering on the ground, perceiving the world without understanding, completely lost in every sense of the word.

Helpless.

Black slips a third finger in, struggling to control her breath.

Red inhales around the fingers, adjusts her hips, and goes back to sucking. Her tongue peeks out past her lips, reaching up Black’s fingers to reach the yet-untouched slick further along.

Perfect.

Black pulls out of Red, slowly, from both ends. Red takes a deep breath, hands flexing but otherwise in control. Waiting. Black gets up on the bed, aware of how the depressions in the cloth will give away her plan, completely uncaring. She lowers herself down over Red’s head, legs framing the eager smile, and slowly falls forward into the scent of lavender.

Red’s tongue reaches up to her just as she reaches down to Red, and Black tenses her thighs in anticipation.

*****

Their morning routine is like clockwork.

First Michelle gets up. She showers, brushes her teeth, dresses, then heads into the kitchen to make breakfast. Today that is a three-egg omelet with vegetables, chunks of ham, milk, and salt. She reads the paper on her phone while she tears through the meal, then downs two glasses of water and one of orange juice.

Michelle is usually gone by the time Karrin wakes.

Where Michelle wakes at six without an alarm, an air raid siren gets snoozed no fewer than three times before Karrin deigns to get out of bed. A tank top and a pair of Mickey-Mouse panties get pulled off as she makes her way to the bathroom. They’ll be washed, but only because Michelle can’t stand the smell of dirty laundry. After spending twice as much time in the shower, Karrin walks into the apartment dressed in nothing more than a tie-dye towel, dry enough not to drip over everything and no more. She fills a bowl with sugary, multi colored cereal, staggers over to the couch, and fiddles with the remote until inane images show up on the screen, slapstick and zanny and completely devoid of meaning.

Karrin still laughs.

When the bowl is finished or the latest episode is over, whichever comes last, Karrin drops the bowl in the sink, then heads back into her room to get dressed. This is usually whatever shirt lies closest to the top in her drawer, some jeans, and a fresh set of underwear. Once that’s done, she grabs a duffle bag and heads out the door, always barely remembering to lock it before she leaves.

The apartment is empty for most of the day.

Once there was art on the walls. Once the master bedroom held a king, and the guest bedroom was a home office. There were rugs, armchairs, and the kitchen was never clean. There used to be a calendar hanging on the wall, with dates circled in red pen and pictures of dogs and cats above the numbered days.

Now the walls are white and bare. Now the only pieces of furniture are the couch Karrin sits on to watch cartoons, and the glass-and-iron table set that Michelle has breakfast at. Now Karrin sleeps in what used to be the home office while Michelle stares at the ceiling surrounded by all-too-empty cloth.

When they’re in the same room it’s as if two ghosts are living together. Eyes skate over each other without seeing, bodies move past without touching, and the silence is preserved at all costs. From time to time tensions rise, when one one or both come home bleeding, pressing linen into wounds and studiously avoiding any show of weakness. It never explodes, never violates the Rules, but bloodied towels are replaced slowly, if at all.

On the last day of every month, two piles of cash are left on the table. The first is always clean bills, bound with paper and barely used. The second is bound with rubber bands, rolls of varying sizes and denominations, taking up more space but ultimately equaling the tidier pile. The refrigerator will always be full of eggs and vegetables and milk, the cabinets will always have boxes of Fruity Pebbles and Cocoa Puffs, and the bills will always be paid.

It is stable, for now, and that is enough.

*****

The bathtub is gargantuan. Ridiculously so. It could fit five people in it, with a selection of buttons that will do everything from massage jets to bubble bath. Instead Black and Red simply luxuriate in the steaming water, the later relaxing into the former’s arms.

“Are you there?” The first question, the most important one. Both of them are durable, tough enough to take gunshots and recover without so much as a limp, but each is painfully aware of just how easy it is for a person to shatter.

Red nods, leaning her head back and nuzzling Black’s cheek. Red still has her blindfold on, while black lace still clings around Black’s eyes. “Always.”

The end is always strange. Red is both more relaxed and more aware of the disappearing time, in a headspace that doesn’t quite connect the two concepts through the haze of contentedness. Black indulges in some last-minute touches, less pushing and more experimental, wondering at the figure, so different from what she started with.

They go back to play. Red is the one taking care of Black this time, all kisses and tangled legs, searching for as much contact as she can get. It’s a simple sort of affection, one which Black is drained enough to appreciate. This time Black is the one laying back, letting Red act upon her, accepting the gentle touches to her lips and fingers. Her part of the session was over. When Black shudders, when her eyes squeeze and muscles clench, Red is there to catch her, to murmur into her ear. Nothing coherent, nothing remotely resembling words, but it’s enough to loosen Black’s deathgrip on the headboard, to let her muscles unwind, each time becoming just a little more unspooled.

Eventually Black’s thread runs out. Eventually Red’s pieces click together, the kaleidoscope of her mind slowly twisting back to normal. Black rolls to the side of the bed, and with Red’s help, stands. Together they head into the bathroom, letting distance grow between them with every step. This time the showers are personal, singular, and where Black goes in Michelle comes out. Her eyes skate over the other woman in the room, an involuntary tremble sneaking through her limbs when the blindfolded body slips by her. Naked limbs almost touch Michelle, bare skin almost comes into contact with bare skin, and only the raw obliviousness prevents Michelle from lashing out.

By the time Red is Karrin again Michelle is gone, nothing more that a taste under her tongue and a pile of memories. A longing for closeness sets in immediately, for a well-earned ache, for fucking, for fighting, for something other than the near-numbness that wraps around her bones whenever she’s alone. Karrin sighs, then replaces it with a smile. She departs as quietly as she came, stepping over the silk and leather strewn across the floor, between the ropes and cuffs, past the tangled sheets pooled on the floor.

Debris from a different world.

**Author's Note:**

> ... fuck I don’t know what to say.
> 
> This is the first piece of smut I’ve written. It’s not smut, though. Not really.
> 
> In case you haven’t read it, frustratedFreeboota wrote a Murder Rat fic called Love is Murder, on Ao3. It’s horrifying, worth the time, and cast a new light on Mouse Protetor and Ravager both for me. That, along with Trillium Waltz (on Space Battles) by Idiom Alpha, inform this variation of the character.
> 
> It’s not the same as my other Mouse fics (which you can find in my snip thread on Spacebattles). It’s also not the same as my first take on Ravager. It’s me trying to dissect two characters, except it evolved beyond that, becoming something sprawling and confusing and frankly a piece I don’t fully understand. I think it works though.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, frustratedFreeboota, for betaing this and providing the original inspiration. It is far better than it was


End file.
